Crooked Little Town
by AmericanWordsmith
Summary: Being a cat burglar is every bit as glamorous as it sounds but Clara James has burned more than her fair share of bridges and needs to get out of the game. Coming to London, then, may not have been the smartest move. Post-series 3, very slight AU, eventual minor romance(s).
1. Chapter 1

The move to London was a ridiculous idea but it had to be done. Ever since that whole Moriarty mess with the Bank, the prison, and the Tower of London, security had been tightened considerably all over London. Background checks galore and limited access to security workers so that future _persuasions_ were also less likely—the whole shebang. And everyone, at this point, had heard of that cocky Sherlock Holmes character. These weren't exactly _ideal_ roadblocks for a cat burglar.

Clara consoled herself with two facts: 1) She was only here for a short time; there was no need to steal anything. 2) It was unlikely Sherlock Holmes would involve himself with anything as base as theft these days, even break-ins the police couldn't solve. Especially break-ins the police couldn't solve, quite possibly, since everyone knew he thought the police dunces. Oh and, taking that last one into consideration again, Clara added a third fact to her consolation list: 3) No, seriously, she wasn't going to steal anything while in London.

Also, she didn't really have any other options for the time being. She couldn't go back to India. Her public life there was fine but she'd burned too many bridges in the crime world. And now, it appeared she had done much the same in China which meant that she was really better off out of Asia entirely. Russia was her safety net; always had been, always would be — she couldn't live there full time or she'd be down an escape route. She could _never_ go back to her real home, America, where she hadn't even _been_ Clara James. And, finally, either South America or Africa was to be the end game. As lovely as it would have been to call it quits and pack up the nest egg already, _that _wasn't an option yet either; she wasn't yet safe and she hadn't collected the final pieces of her life… well, _to be_ life.

And one of the most major metropolitan areas of the world was probably her best option at this point — hiding in plain site and all that. Plus, even though she was most definitely _not_ going to steal anything… London had an abundance of things to _look _at stealing. It was a stupid reason, she knew; but nothing about her compulsions had ever really been logical. Yet another plus for throwing off Holmes but, potentially, a minus for attracting his attention.

What bothered her the most about the move, she supposed, was the potential loss of the public life she'd built for herself. She hadn't known if she'd be able to make real legal difference on the behalf of women as a detective. That certainly hadn't been why she'd chosen the profession. No, of course, she'd become a detective to aid in her growing burglary skillset. But then she'd started taking other cases… acid-throwing, rape, shame-killings. It had been healing for her to add justice to the plot of those horrible stories.

Well, now she had to go back to Western society. She could help female victims anywhere in the world, in theory. But she'd gotten the job in London by pulling strings; they hadn't advertised for the position. As such, she had a feeling that to prove her worth she'd likely end up working whatever cases she was assigned, like she was new blood or something. _New blood_, the term made her grimace; she'd been the best at her job for close to ten years now. As the coveted _American_ detective on her old police forces, she'd developed a pattern of getting the cases she wanted.

She had literally left Beijing just a day earlier and her new life here was already squared away. Now she was on her way to her first day of work. She did not know if she would have to look out for Holmes today or not but, until she did meet him, she'd have to spend each morning preparing with the utmost care. And after she met him? Well, hopefully, she wouldn't even be a passing blip on the radar.

The New Scotland Yard building made her nervous even as she approached it. She rolled her eyes, it was one of those great glass boxy numbers designed by a terribly uncreative architect. Clara didn't like glass buildings. She considered herself an entirely self-contained person. The only people who knew who she _really_ was were in America and, considering they hadn't known for sure that she was even alive in over a decade, they didn't know who she was anymore either. Being in a glass building made her feel exposed.

She knew Holmes, if she were to meet him, would exacerbate the feeling tenfold which was why she had prepared. The secret, she hoped beyond hope, was to expose just enough of the truth. Anything she didn't want exposed she needed to make boring. She'd read John Watson's blog thoroughly enough to glean that Holmes was ruled by intrigue. The thought made her roll her eyes again: And people called theft a base desire? Please, anyone was a sucker for a good mystery.

"Hello, my name is Clara James," she said approaching an information desk with two security workers in the lobby, "Could you direct me to Inspector Greg Lestrade's office? I've just accepted a position in his department."

She signed in, using the same signature she had practiced over and over again when assuming the identity of Clara James. Poor _real_ Clara James, she would think on occasion; the girl had really been studying to become a detective and everything.

And elevator ride and a brisk walk later, Clara was knocking on Lestrade's office door.

"Come in!"

Clara opened the door. "Inspector Lestrade?" she walked over to his desk, hand outstretched, which he took with a smile.

"Inspector James, I presume? Please take a seat!"

"Thank you sir, please let me just first say that how grateful I am that you were so quickly able to find me a position! I'm very excited to be part of the team."

"Your colleague in Beijing, Detective Liao, we studied Criminal Justice together. He _insisted_, I mean quite vehemently, that we make room for you here at the Metropolitan Police Service. Said that you'd be an unimaginable asset!"

"That's very lofty praise and I appreciate his kind words. I do hope to live up to the expectations," she said pragmatically.

Lestrade was about to make some response when his office door abruptly swung open, hitting the inside wall with a dramatic thud. An extremely tall man slid into the room comically and Clara was instantly reminded of an American show she hadn't seen since she left the states — Kramer, from Seinfeld. Behind the lean, wired man was a much more composed fellow with grey hair. Clara recognized them immediately: Holmes and Watson.

"Lestrade! He was bludgeoned with a tripod! It's the only thing that can explain the bruising points in the shape of an equilateral triangle-" Sherlock began.

"Well I'm sure it's not the _only_ thing," Watson interrupted.

"Given the victim's _cinematic _dabblings, I don't think so," Holmes finished.

Lestrade sighed and looked at Clara apologetically. He opened his mouth to make introductions but Sherlock had already started in on her.

He looked Clara over with a sharp, critical, unwavering gaze. "Who's this?" he asked Lestrade, as if she wasn't even there.

"Ah, this is Clara! She's just moved to London and we've brought her on as a new inspector she's just come from Beijing-"

"-And before that, _India_? New Delhi, I'd assume, since she's just moved from one big capital to another," he finished, referring to London. He was still taking her in. Clara's mouth was parted slightly in a mix of genuine surprise and a bit of pre-planned acting. She hadn't expected to meet him _this _soon.

"Please Sherlock, we've _just_ hired her. She's got a _very_ impressive reputation and we don't need you scaring her off!"

"The prayer beads?" Clara asked, stepping in and holding up her wrist, fingering the beads lightly.

"Could have just been a souvenir but they're well worn," he said, "You've actually _used_ them which suggests you must have been in the country for some time in order to glean the religion."

"That was easy. What else?"

"You're hair is in a bun, you want to appear professional on your first day of work. But it's a… different sort of bun-"

"A sushi bun!" she piped up cheerily.

"So you also want to express that you're a young, creative, professional," he said. "You're also dressed modestly. Shirt completely buttoned to the neckline, suit jacket that overwhelms your frame so men can't make out your body, high-waisted pants, old clothing as old as the 1980s. Probably picked up from a thrift store because you're not trying to impress anyone, in fact the opposite…"

"I'm sorry about all of this… you did ask him," his friend John said, stepping in.

"No, no! He's completely correct. That is _exactly_ what I was going for when I dressed this morning. It's good to be validated in my decisions."

Sherlock ignored them both and kept going. "They still can, you know," he said.

"Pardon?" she asked.

"Men, they can still see that you have a nice body."

John and Lestrade both raised their eyebrows curiously but Clara stepped in on Sherlock's behalf. "Don't worry boys, I know he's not interested in me. Saying I have a nice body is not a judgement or compliment. It is just a fact."

"No shortage of confidence," Sherlock said, "But you frowned unconsciously when you said it. So the confidence is a front. And you have an American accent. An American moving from India to China to here… Well I'm still not sure I've figured out your most recent move, yet, but — given the modest clothing and the fake confidence — it appears you have an innate distrust of men. Your body posture was closed off before we arrived, judging by how both your arms and legs were crossed when we entered, and you clenched further inward upon the appearance of two _more _men."

Lestrade and Sherlock both looked at her for confirmation on this one but she simply cocked her head, arms and legs still crossed, and waited patiently.

"You moved to those countries to help women," Sherlock concluded, "Acid attacks, shame killings… Now you've gone quiet. Your eyes just briefly unfocused. You've been sexually assaulted too. I'm thinking, perhaps, in China which is why you've moved back to a Western culture."

"Sherlock!" John scolded but she put up a hand quietly.

"You said it before, John, I asked him to. Besides, I don't attempt to make a secret of my past," she said.

"The only component I'm still not sure I can figure, is why you came to London instead of returning to America," Sherlock said.

"Don't bother," she said, "It's quite mundane. I don't get along with my family."

"That would have been my first hypothesis, given that India is a long way to travel just to become a detective. Add that to the fact that you gained some spirituality while there," he said, gesturing to the beads on her wrist again, "Seems like you were running from some trauma. Maybe the sexual assault didn't occur in China after all. Am I right?"

"Oh you're in the general neighborhood," she replied.

Instantaneously he frowned. "What did I get wrong?"

She let out a bark of a laugh. "We _are_ talking about my personal life here. You'd expect me to tell you?"

"You asked me to analyze you. I'm not a _parlour trick_," he hissed.

"No, I egged you on after you noted my prayer beads," she said, "_You _started it. But don't worry, no need to agonize. You weren't _wrong_ in the technical sense, not about anything. The very general outline just gives a different impression than the real story."

"Oh?" he asked.

"_Not_ in an interesting way," she said, and stood from her chair, "Your outline just makes me sound like more of a helpless victim than what I really am."

"And what is that?"

"A survivor," Clara said with a smile. She held out her hand and he shook it before she released her grip to shake John's. "It was a pleasure meeting both of you."

"And you," John said looking mildly impressed at how unphased she was. She walked past them to go settle in at her new desk. Clearly her new boss was going to need some time with the new men before they could continue. She needed to check in with Human Resources for a benefits orientation anyway. As she opened the door to Lestrade's office behind them, Sherlock spoke up a final time.

"One thing to keep in mind, Detective James," he said, looking back at her, "You're no safer from dangerous men in a western society."

She sighed and rolled her eyes, "You may be able to tell plenty about an individual, Sherlock… but don't pretend you understand women."

"I don't," he replied, curtly, "Romance is a waste of time."

"That's not what I meant. Allow me to rephrase. Don'tpretend you understand what it's like _to be _a woman."

With that she promptly shut Lestrade's door right in his face.

* * *

Later that evening, Watson sat in the armchair of his old living room kneading a portion of his forehead with his fingers. Sherlock was playing Debussy's _Syrinx_, a piece originally intended for the flute, on his violin. The transition was a jarring one and Sherlock was playing the screeching piece over and over _and over_. Mary was in the kitchen making soup for Mrs. Hudson who was sick. At least, that was their excuse. Ever since Moriarty had purportedly returned from the dead, they'd all been making an unconscious effort to stick together.

"I don't know what you're on about this time," he finally shouted, throwing his section of the news the the floor in an unceremonious heap, "But can you _please_ switch tunes while you're in this frustrated huff?"

Sherlock pulled the instrument away from his chin abruptly, an errant finger plucking one of the strings loudly in the same motion. "John! It's Debussy!"

"Or a basket of cats dying," he mumbled and walked into the kitchen to rustle through the cabinets for some crackers.

"It's an interesting piece," Sherlock said, flopping onto the sofa and holding the violin sideways like a guitar as he plucked a minor scale, "Debussy went to the World's Fair in 1889. While he was there, he heard Javanese gamelan music. It was some of the first Eastern music the Western world had ever been exposed to."

Watson came back with a few crackers in hand. He waited for Sherlock to explain himself.

"That new detective. Clara James. She should know all about that," he finished.

There it was. Sherlock didn't like something about Lestrade's newest hire. John played along. "Why do you say that? She lived in India and then China, Java is in Indonesia."

"Gamelan ensembles aren't limited to one country," Sherlock said, "Besides, I've looked into her work history. She helped to recover a missing singer from one of Beijing's most revered gamelan ensembles. Turned out the woman had shady beginnings in recruiting young, unsuspecting women for sex slavery."

"My _God_," John said, choking on one of his crackers. "How terrible!"

"I said she helped to recover the woman. She also helped to put her in jail, after they shut down the trafficking. There? Do you have your happy ending now?"

"You were spot on with her!"

"_Oh_, I'm spot on with everyone!" Sherlock said dismissively. "But there was one thing I got wrong…"

"What's that?"

"Anyone looking through her work history and accolades can see she's a woman passionate about her cause," he said, standing to place his violin back in it's case, "It doesn't seem likely that she would have left the countries where women need her most for some place like London. In comparison, we seem positively matriarchal."

"But you pointed out… sexual assault. And she practically confirmed it," John argued.

"But she didn't actually confirm it, outright. There's no record of sexual assault anywhere in her history," Sherlock negated, "Now either she didn't report it, which seems highly unlikely given her profession, or it didn't happen. One thing is certain, Clara James is not a woman who is too afraid of men to maintain a cause she's passionate about."

John sighed. Sherlock had a point but he was afraid it wasn't as conclusive as his friend was making it out to be. "Perhaps," he conceded, "Or perhaps it's like she said…"

"She said many things, John, to which are you referring?" he asked, clearly annoyed to be debated.

"Well, don't assume you know what it's like to be a woman, much less a woman that's been assaulted."

On this note, Mary walked out of the kitchen with a tray of soup in hand. "Well, while that's sound advice, you've missed something yourself, John," she said, "A little mystery about Sherlock."

"Oh?" he asked his wife.

"Why is he so interested in this new detective?" she asked.

"He's _not_ interested in her, she's not _The Woman!_" John said, putting air quotes around "the woman." Both Mary and Sherlock frowned at John's hasty assumption.

"She knows better than that, John. Go ahead, tell him," Sherlock said.

"A new detective hastily hired in one day?" she asked, "What if she's working for Moriarty? What if Lestrade has been compromised?"

* * *

Clara had come to London as prepared as she could for Sherlock Holmes but, given exactly the alarming rate at which he unpuzzled things, she began to worry she hadn't prepared well enough. She'd maintained her double life in several countries with ease now—an astonishing feat, she would tell herself mentally, given that her two professions were at odds with one another—but both working _with_ Sherlock while simultaneously working _against_ him seemed likely to prove her downfall if she wasn't continuously careful.

She could not slip. Not once. Not for less than a second.

This was going to be exhausting.

Her whole day had been spent getting ID cards, being issued weapons, touring the building, meeting co-workers, etc. She wasn't sure when she'd be put on her first case. Hopefully her first week or so would be going over paperwork to learn the particulars of the London police system, which would decrease her chances of bumping into Holmes. But avoidance wouldn't work long term. Even if she had managed to keep his interest in her down after that first meeting, she'd still have to interact with him on cases. She'd have to stay boring at all times.

The key, she decided, would be to keep him interested in their cases together. She'd do her best to keep her crimes mundane, completely ordinary. Granted, she wasn't sure how to accomplish that as, mundane criminal work made her twice as likely to get caught. When something was unsolvable, it no longer counted as "ordinary."

So what was her alternative? To only steal items on _un_impressive value?

Well, that obviously wasn't why she'd become a cat burglar.

Clara smacked her hand to her forehead as she walked into her new flat. No, no, _no! _She wasn't going to steal anything while she was in London. It wouldn't be an issue. Period.

She doubted that Holmes would be spying on her currently as he certainly had no reason to do so at the moment. Either way she was cautious as she entered the flat. She turned on the lights and went about the business a normal person would go about after work — showering, changing, cooking, eating, and then unpacking some things from the move.

But it was all a front. This wasn't even her real place. Still, Clara laid down in her fake flat's bed in the dark for about an hour staring at the ceiling — asleep to any prying eyes from outside. To keep herself awake, she debated her day job against her passion.

Clara cared a great deal more for helping women than material objects, of course. But a compulsion was a compulsion, and she'd been a kleptomaniac since she was four years old. She still remembered her first time: The only kid at an adult dinner party, the adults tipsy on white whine, the air fragrant with baked eggplant and vinaigrettes and all sorts of other things she didn't eat at that age.

She had been waiting for her parents for _hours_, while they all argued about Bush losing the presidential election for a second term. Her parents' friends were rich, at least, which meant they had some very fascinating things to look at. On the desk in a study was an enormous elephant tusk, among other wonders. But what she'd ultimately spied was much more innocuous.

On a table in the main hall, where all the adults had dropped their car keys, was a small blown-glass paperweight. It was in the shape of a star, but with round edges, and it was a swirl of purple and blue. Clara didn't know why, but the object had called to her. _I'm yours_, it had said. And when her small fist had wrapped around it—_just to look_—it did indeed feel like _hers_, as if it had always been hers and she'd just misplaced it this whole time.

At first, she'd put it back on the table. But the moment the smooth glass left her hands, her stomach knotted tightly. It felt wrong to leave it behind. She would think of nothing else if she left it, she was sure.

That first time, she was caught. Her mother had later found it in her pocket. She'd driven Clara back to the house, made her march right up to the door and give it back and apologize. Oddly enough, that part wasn't so bad. After she'd taken it home she did not want it so badly anymore. It was why she'd completely forgotten it and left it in her pocket in the first place. So, there were no tears shed over returning the paperweight. No, the whole experience had simply been… _the taking_.

The hour was up. Clara got out of bed and got changed into an oversized grey jumper and sweatpants. She tucked her hair up underneath a floppy cap and left the apartment.

It was difficult not to keep looking around herself as she traversed the city at this late hour. But continuous glancing would have made her look suspicious. Almost twenty blocks later, she turned into a narrow alley between two row homes. At the side of one, concrete stairs led downwards into a basement. There were no windows and the door didn't even have a handle; you had to pull it open with your keys once you'd inserted them into the lock.

Once inside, the door locked behind her automatically, but she sealed shut the deadbolt just in case. She couldn't stay too long; she'd need to wake up in the faux-flat to walk to work in case anyone tracked her movements the next morning. It was dark in the basement. She flipped the light switch and the room brightened.

Clara let out a relaxed sigh. It was more like a storage unit than a home. Things upon things upon things… all the things she'd ever stolen. As she'd grown older, she had eventually developed taste. On the far wall was her Leger, a painting nearly six feet tall; boy had that been a tough theft… cumbersome objects were not preferable, but that heart wanted what it wanted.

There were plenty of miscellaneous objects too — things she'd taken from peoples houses and the like. Plus, _real_ personal items from her past in America. Most of those she kept safely tucked away. Some things she even needed to hide from herself.

Clara didn't keep everything she stole. Most things were returned to their owners before they even knew they were gone. Unfortunately, for the big thefts that wasn't an option. _A criminal always returns to the scene of the crime…. _pssssh! Only if they were idiots. And then, of course, there were the objects that she legitimately didn't want to return.

She flopped down on a leather sofa in the center of the basement. That was stolen too. She'd taken that straight out of a neighbor's apartment in Beijing before she left. She'd needed help getting it into her "getaway" moving van and she sighed at the thought. Not all of the loose ends from China were tied up quite yet. There were always accomplices to think about.

She'd met plenty of men—_always_ men—who thought her cat burglaring a base form of crime. But such was typical of mere _compulsions_, though she frequently tried to dress up her reasoning for taking the second "job." Really though, even if it was a compulsion problem, Clara had always found the term quite elegant. Cats were quite elegant._ Burglary _was an elegant term; it had a wonderful ring to it. And, best of all, she had to perform a surprising amount _more_ Mission-Impossible / Bondeqsue-type moves for the jobs than even she would have ever expected. And Clara had a bad habit of idealizing almost everything when she was a child.

* * *

She'd fallen asleep in her basement. _Crap, _she'd already ruined everything. Clara shot up from the leather couch, checking the time as she did so. It was already 8 am, she'd be late for work if she even attempted to go back to her apartment. And she really wasn't certain where anything was in London yet so she didn't know if she'd be able to stop somewhere to buy clothes on her way to work.

_Crap_, she thought again, fussing around the few pieces of furniture in the basement that had drawers. Really she knew it was useless; all that was down here was a complete mess of miscellany. Her cell rang, startling her from her thoughts.

"Hello?" she asked, not recognizing the number.

"Clara it's Sally, from work," came the voice at the other end.

"Oh, hello, what's up? I'm just… o-on my way in," she lied.

"Stay where you are, we have to go somewhere for Greg."

"I've um, actually just returned from my morning run," she said looking down at her grey sweat clothes, "Do I have time to finish running back to my place for a quick change?"

"Not right now but it doesn't matter, you can change after we've finished. We just need to go to Holmes house," she said.

Clara raised her eyebrows in alarm. "Really? Why?"

"He's stolen something from evidence," she said, "We need to get it back. I'll meet you outside his place in 15 minutes, 221B Baker Street. Can you manage?"

"Sure, I'll see you soon," Clara said and hung up, letting out an enormous breath of relief.

She snuck out to the street as inconspicuously as possible. While Clara had never had contact with Moriarty herself, per se, she'd known criminals he'd helped in the past. One of his patented tips to keep in mind when dealing with Sherlock Holmes was not to underestimate his London "homeless network."

Luckily, the area she was in was virtually abandoned at any point during the day. It was one of the reasons she'd chosen it. Another old-school Moriarty tip for scamming the city of London that had been passed on from wrongdoer to wrongdoer.

This did not, however, change the fact that she was completely unprepared to meet Mr. Holmes a second time. Anxiety knotted in her stomach, and she was certain it showed.

* * *

**Thanks for reading everyone, I'd love to hear your thoughts! I feel like this is a difficult fandom to write for as there are so many details to keep in mind. It's also my first mystery, written from a criminal perspective no less, so I'm definitely curious to see if I can keep everyone guessing.**


	2. Chapter 2

"Well someone wasn't worried about being late to work their second day," Sherlock said as soon as she and Sally entered his flat.

Sally cocked an eyebrow at this bit, apparently eager to hear more which surprised Clara. The previous day at work Sally had spent the entirety of the first few minutes of their introduction complaining about the "freak." Clara had found it off-putting at the time—Sally wasn't even subtle about hiding her jealousy—but she had assumed such insecurities were only a result of Sherlock's astounding genius. Yes, Sally was a bit abrasive at first, but Clara hadn't suspected her to be the kind of colleague out to bash the rest of her coworkers.

Either way, Sherlock satiated her curiosity immediately by continuing his deductions. "Still in a track suit as of 8:45 in the morning but there's no visible sweat nor a stench," he said, "And the creasing along the back of the clothing suggests you slept in those."

Clara blinked, allowing her eyes to widen; so what if Sally had a bad impression of her? Better that than Sherlock increasing his interest. "Yes… I overslept a bit," she said and looked to Sally, "I was rushing to get ready when you called, I lied… about the run."

Sally put her hands up in a "not my business" gesture but Clara could sense a very annoying smug satisfaction.

Suddenly, in the next room, they heard a saucy female moan and a distinct male grunt. Clara frowned and raised her eyebrows, pearing around the corner into the kitchen. A laptop was open on the table and it was playing what appeared to be an x-rated film.

"Have we interrupted something?" she asked.

"I believe," Sherlock said, "This is what you two were likely sent to retrieve."

"Murder case, three days old now," Sally said, "I was supposed to get you up to date first thing this morning but then we noticed a key piece of evidence had gone missing."

"A porno film?" she asked.

Sally walked briskly to the computer to pause the video and eject the disc. Sherlock didn't do anything to stop her leading Clara to believe he'd already saved the film to computer.

"The victim was a local 'director,' or whatever those people should be called," Sally said before turning to Sherlock. She began to reprimand him but Clara was taking in the consulting detective's home. For all that he probably had already deduced about her, it couldn't hurt for her to glean as much information about him as possible in turn.

No. That was incorrect. It could hurt.

Looking around the room, her eyes alighted upon a small black globe with the countries of the world painted in silver. Clara felt a familiar twisting sensation in her stomach. Simultaneously, she felt both the immense relief one associates with finally finding an object once thought long lost… and the sickening realization that said object did _not_, in fact, belong to her. Sherlock Holmes was the last person from whom she could steal.

"So, in the future, Lestrade would like you to come in to use the provided media room for things of this nature," Sally finished. "Sherlock? Hello? Freak, are you even listening to me?"

Clara's eyes snapped over to the pair. Sherlock was staring her down as hard as she'd been looking at his globe.

"Why are you so interested in that globe?" he asked.

Clara cocked her head in fake curiosity. "What?" she asked before shaking her head as if waking from a fog, "Oh, sorry. I wasn't… I just zoned out. Like I said, I overslept a bit. I didn't have time to grab coffee on my way in."

In that moment, Clara had never been so grateful for _actually_ oversleeping in her life. Between the lack of coffee, passing out on the couch, and having no time for make-up, she was positive she had legitimate bags beneath her eyes.

"Stop harassing our new detective, freak," Sally said, sticking up for her not, Clara suspected, out of genuine compassion but more because Sally just hated Sherlock that much.

"Well, I'll be interested to see what you both make of it," Sherlock said, with just a trace of sarcasm. "You can tell Lestrade I'll likely be in later today."

They both turned to leave. Sally was driving her own car back to the office and Clara hopped in beside her. As they turned away from Baker Street, the knotted sickness of her stomach only intensified. She _needed _that globe. But she would never be able to take it.

* * *

Sherlock continued to pace around his apartment, trying to work out two mysteries at once, after they left. He was certain he knew who had killed the director—it was _clearly_ his cameraman, after all—but he still didn't know what to make of this Clara James.

On the surface, even her private historical surface, she was just a boring woman who happened to be an excellent detective. Yes, she'd clearly had some past trauma which is why she left America. Still, moving to India was a weird choice. The abrupt following move to China was equally strange. He would have very much liked to ask Greg Lestrade straight out why he'd hired this new woman so quickly but, had he really been compromised, he wouldn't get a real answer anyway.

But he felt almost certain she was working with Moriarty now. The way she'd apparently "zoned out" in his flat… her eyes had taken on the deep empty blackness of a shark preparing to feast. He'd only seen eyes like that in one other person, and that was Moriarty himself.

Sherlock very much wanted to take his thoughts on this second encounter with Ms. James to John and Mary immediately. But somewhere in the back of his mind he vaguely remembered them mentioning an appointment—a prenatal appointment, that was it. Though he cared a great deal for his friends' future child, his mind palace had become exponentially more crowded ever since Moriarty's video broadcast.

In the meantime, he intended to do whatever was necessary to get to the root of Clara James' history. He'd already soaked up all the information he could from her record. Now, it was time to get the homeless network on the case.

* * *

Sally had stopped back at Clara's apartment on their way into the office so she could change into more suitable attire. Clara invited her up. Knowing that Sally had visited her apartment would unconsciously decrease everyone's suspicion about her home — assuming suspicions ever arose. It never hurt to plan ahead, just in case.

"You're not far from the office at all," Sally said as they climbed the third flight of stairs in the apartment building. There was no elevator available but, due to the nature of their work, they were both in good shape.

"Until I learn my way around the city better, I thought it a good idea to pick a place within walking distance of everything I need," she said and unlocked her door, "There's a grocery just around the corner."

Sally waited in the living room while Clara pulled on a different pantsuit. She knew Sherlock was coming in today, he'd told them he'd stop by to see Lestrade, so she thought about what a normal woman would do in her situation. Likely, a normal woman would have been embarrassed by the fact he'd noticed she tried to hide her body.

Clara didn't really _try_ to hide her body, but she'd wanted Sherlock to guess she'd been assaulted in the past. She didn't trust herself to appropriately disguise the fact that she was hiding _something_, so she tried to divert his attention to a different _something_ than her crimes. It worked, and now she had to follow through. She picked out a nicer, well-fitting suit: pinstriped and tailored to accent her hips and lengthen her legs.

When she walked out Sally was looking at a photo on her wall. She was decked out in cap and gown, two glowing elderly people pressed on either side of her.

"My graduation from Northwestern," she said, referring to the American school the real Clara James had attended.

"Are those your parents?" Sally asked.

"Yep, good old Mom and Dad. Probably the last time we got along," she lied. The picture was a complete fake. Unless someone _really_ studied it, scanning it into a computer and magnifying it, you would never be able to tell it was Photoshopped.

"They're still in America?" Sally asked, growing noticeably uncomfortable when Clara mentioned the deteriorated relationship. Good. She probably wouldn't ask anymore questions.

"Yes," she said, "Shall we go? You can keep your car parked here if you'd like to walk."

Sally didn't want to walk and their drive over was less than a minute. Once in the office, Clara sat down with Sally and Greg to go over the specifics of the murder case they were currently on. It was to be outsourced to Clara, since she was most junior in the office now and the rest of them were still trying to trace the Moriarty "Miss me?" broadcast.

Clara was thankful to be thrown headfirst into this new investigation, even if it meant she'd have to talk to Sherlock later that day. Work meant distraction and distraction meant she wouldn't have to think about that blasted globe. She was going to need to get a handle on her compulsions while in London. Clara mentally added finding a therapist on her to-do list.

"You're all set then?" Lestrade asked her as she prepared to make her way back to her desk, "Sally assures me that all the evidence has been returned."

"Yes, I should be fine now… I do have a question though," she said, biting her lip thoughtfully.

"Oh?"

"Well, sir, with the entire office's attention focused on Moriarty, I'd think Mr. Holmes would be more distracted by his return than anyone. Why on Earth was he concerned enough with this small murder case to steal evidence?" she asked.

Lestrade sighed. "Unfortunately, no one can ever say why that man does the things he does," he began, "But Holmes has been busying himself with almost every case that enters the office as of late. He's working round the clock. The most likely explanation, I believe, is that he's hoping one of the smaller cases will connect back to Moriarty. That's certainly the way it worked in the past. Moriarty was connected to everything."

Clara nodded thoughtfully and Lestrade began to walk away as another employee caught his attention across the room. But then, Clara had a brilliant idea.

"Wait, sir?" she called after him. He turned back and waited. "I might just be a bit sensitive… but I think Mr. Holmes might be, um, suspicious of me… given my abrupt hiring and everything."

Lestrade considered this for a moment. "Well, Sherlock plays his little deduction game with all the newcomers but, yes, given the immediacy of your hire as well as his current mindset, I'm afraid you may be right."

"Is there anything that you could do? Or say, on my behalf?" she asked, "I'm doing my best to settle in to the new city and the new job… It's just a little disarming on top of everything else."

Lestrade smiled at her. "Don't worry, he doesn't bite," he said, "But I'll have a word with him. Can't promise it will do any good though!"

"Thank you, Greg, I _do_ appreciate it," she said. And he waved her off gently before turning away again. As soon as she was sure no one was looking at her, Clara allowed herself one smug smile.

* * *

Eventually, John and Mary did return from their appointment. Everything looked normal which was pleasing to hear and one less thing for him to think about. So he started in on Ms. James.

"Sherlock," John started, "I hardly think her zoning out first thing in the morning qualifies as reasonable suspicion."

"But he's right about how quickly she was hired, John," Mary said, stepping in to defend Sherlock, "It's very strange."

"None of us have any special insight into Scotland Yard's hiring policies! Perhaps she sent in her resume months ago," he said.

"That doesn't mean we _shouldn't_ check her out! At a time like now? With Moriarty back, ready to do _anything_ to hurt Sherlock while we have a baby on the way?" she asked and let out a frustrated breath. "Quite frankly, I think we should be suspicious of everyone."

"My thoughts exactly," Sherlock added. John rolled his eyes.

"Yes, I _know_ you're suspicious of everyone Sherlock! Have you ever thought that perhaps that's why we haven't made _any_ progress in the last month? You won't allow yourself to narrow down the search!" he argued.

"Don't you remember _anything_ about our past dealings with this maniac?" Sherlock began to shout, "Narrowing the search is a ba-"

"-You're _both_ right!" Mary interjected. "Which is why you need a third party's perspective. I'll meet her."

"Now wait a minute-" John began but Sherlock interrupted.

"Oh suddenly she's not so harmless anymore, is she?" he asked sarcastically before standing up, "Come on, I needed to go in to tell Lestrade to call in that adult-film cameraman for interrogation anyway."

* * *

"Well, thank you, Sherlock but you needn't have come in…" Clara could hear Greg saying from within his office, "Detective James had the cameraman locked up hours ago. Brought him in on suspicion with a warrant and had a full written confession from him within a half hour's time."

He'd brought Watson with him, as well as some woman who'd been given her side-eye from the moment the trio had arrived.

"A full confession?" she heard Sherlock ask, "But he went to such great lengths to hide his crime…"

Lestrade's office door opened and they all walked out. "Tell them Clara," he said.

"Interrogation tactics have always been… one of my strengths," she said, putting it lightly.

"Who would have thought?" Sherlock asked rhetorically, narrowing his eyes at her.

Lestrade sighed, looking between Sherlock and Clara. "John, Mary? Would you excuse us for a moment? There's something I was hoping to speak to you about, Sherlock… in _private_," he said.

"Fine. Let's take a walk," he answered and the two men strode out of the office.

"John tells me you just began work yesterday!" the woman named Mary said, "And you've already solved a murder case?" She sounded enthusiastic but Clara couldn't tell how genuine the tone was.

"Solving it was easy, I'm sure Mr. Holmes had it all worked out days ago," Clara responded with a smile, "You're John's wife, I presume?"

"Yes, Mary Watson, lovely to meet you," she said holding out her hand. Clara took it and shook firmly.

"Clara James, pleasure," she replied.

"So, do you know anyone in the area or are you completely new?"

"Completely new, I'm afraid. Except for everyone at work whom I met yesterday," Clara said, having a feeling where this was leading.

"There's a new visiting exhibition at the Tate," Mary said, "Georgia O'Keeffe. She's from your neck of the woods!"

"I _love_ Georgia O'Keeffe," Clara said, speaking honestly about the American artist.

"Would you like to join me after you're done work today? I've been looking for someone to go with and I'm not sure… the artist is really up John's alley," Mary said, letting out a laugh.

John frowned and looked between the two smirking women. "What? How do you know? You can't say for sure!"

"I'd love to," Clara said, "I can meet you outside the museum around 4:30?"

"Fantastic! See you then!" They both walked out with a wave.

Clara rolled her eyes as they left. The offer was nice but it surely came with many strings attached. She had no idea who this Mary Watson was beyond John's wife but Sherlock trusted her enough to gather intel, that was for sure. Clara sighed. Just another interaction for which she had to pre-plan. Her hopes of keeping her nose down in London for a few months were not, so far, coming to fruition.

* * *

"So you've been giving my new detective a hard time Sherlock," Lestrade said as they circled the block around the building. "She's _not_ with Moriarty."

"That's exactly what you'd tell me, though, if say… your family had been threatened," Sherlock replied.

Lestrade sighed. "I suppose so, but only if you'd asked me outright. If I was compromised in any way, I wouldn't have taken you out for this talk." Sherlock didn't look appeased so Lestrade continued. "Look Sherlock, we've been attempting to recruit new, experienced officers ever since Moriarty's broadcast. Trouble is, the experienced officers want to stay the hell out of London. The only applicants we're getting are young kids straight out of uni that want to pretend they're _you_."

"So doesn't that make her transfer here even stranger?" Sherlock pressed.

"Despite what you clearly believe, not all mysteries are your personal business. Nor does every loose end lead back to you," Lestrade said, stopping now to face him while standing. They'd looped back around to the front of the building. "She's left under terribly unfortunate, and terribly _personal_ circumstances, that are none of your concern. And, knowing you as well as I do, Sherlock, I'm afraid to say that even if you did know the reason it would simply_ bore_ you. And you'd have snooped around in that poor woman's business for nothing. I'm telling you one time only: stop this nonsense now."

Sherlock sighed heavily through his nose, considering this. He could tell from Lestrade's body language that he was telling the truth and that he was dead serious. But before he could even offer a response, John and Mary were heading outside.

"I'll check in with you later in the week," Lestrade said curtly and walked back inside.

"Well?" John asked, "What was that about?"

"I'm not entirely sure, quite yet. I'm loathe to admit I've been barking up the wrong tree," he said.

"Well, I'm meeting her later this afternoon to go to a museum," Mary said, "I'll find out what I can."

Sherlock nodded not wanting to discourage his friend. He doubted that if this Clara James _were_ a threat, that Mary would be able to glean anything from her lies. Then again, Mary was well trained in such things.

Either way, he was keeping his homeless network on the case too.

* * *

**First things first, title change! This story used to be called _Relentless,_ so here's the reason for the change: If it wasn't already apparent, my OC is very much channeling Catwoman — not just in the cat burglar sense, but the not-quite good / not-quite bad sense. So this new title is borrowed from a comic. Each episode of the real show pays homage to a real story, so I'm doing the same on behalf of my OC. **

**One thing I really wanted to explore with this story is how, sometimes, being a genius can lead to **_**over**_**-analyzing things. Socially awkward people, genius or not, tend to overthink the actions of others around them. Sometimes I feel this is an aspect of the show that doesn't factor into Sherlock's character frequently enough. Although, if you disagree with that sentiment, please let me know in the comments! It may very well help me structure my next chapter. Any and all feedback is always greatly appreciated! Sherlock fans are a dedicated, and tough, crowd. **


	3. Chapter 3

The Tate was a very strange building and reminded Clara very much of Washington DC. It's expansive concrete base was not unlike the Kennedy Center and the high tower jutting out from its center, similar to the the Washington monument.

Even when she lived in the States, Clara had only been to DC once — a field trip in high school, part of her Government class. Still, the small reminder of the home she hadn't been to in over a decade stung briefly. That specific year in highschool had been a particularly painful one, too.

Surprisingly, Clara bumped into Mary as she was crossing the Millennium Bridge across the Thames on her way to the museum. The bridge was extremely crowded but she had recognized Mary's bright red peacoat from earlier in the day.

"Oh, hello!" Mary said in slight surprise when Clara had jogged a bit to catch up with her.

"Hi, how are you?" Clara asked, not really waiting for a response, "Thank you again for inviting me."

"Thank you for coming! After we left Scotland Yard I had to explain to John the kind of imagery Ms. O'Keeffe favored," she said cheekily, "Some men never grow up."

"_No_ men ever grow up," Clara responded with a laugh, "Not really."

* * *

"Well," Clara began tactfully, "...It definitely could be a flower. I mean, it's definitely _supposed _to be a flower."

They were looking at a painting from Georgia O'Keeffe's white and blue flower series. Painted so up-close like that, flowers bore a disarming similarity to a part of the female reproductive system.

"Clara, there's no need to remain politic when it's just as girls," Mary teasingly admonished, "It looks like a hooha. And I think that was intentional."

"Definitely intentional," Clara agreed and they both giggled.

They had just finished winding their way through the visiting O'Keeffe exhibition and were now headed to some of the permanent collections. She'd really been having a very good time with Mary and, so far at least, Clara didn't feel like her life was being probed into. Mary was bright and personable, she didn't seem to mind Clara's brazen American-ness at all. They were really getting along as old friends, enjoying the museum so much together that their hadn't been the need for awkward small talk about their respective pasts. Still, Clara was almost positive Sherlock had sent her. His suspicion was unmissable.

As if on cue: "So, India and China. Those must have been fascinating places to live," Mary mused aloud.

Clara took some time to chew her words. This still wasn't necessarily an indication of being spied upon or hounded for information. It was a perfectly reasonable question for a new friend.

"Incredibly," Clara said, "And their history, their art, the music… it's all _so_ different in Eastern cultures. But it was also incredibly isolating. Social interaction is also very different and I never did quite get the hang of it. And they're not the best environments for women exactly."

Mary hummed appreciatively but only pressed her further by saying, "You'll have to show me some mementos some time."

"Oh yes, I have lots," she said, _More than you think_, she added mentally. "These prayer beads are from India," she said and held up her hand.

"They're lovely," Mary complimented.

Clara was about to thank her when her attention was caught by a print on their opposite wall. She didn't immediately recognize the artist or the work, though the wall text told her it was called _Rocky Bay Scene_ by Alexander Cozens. All the same it was familiar. Familiar in the way Sherlock's globe had seemed familiar. It was her compulsion. She wanted that print. Needed it.

It was exceptionally small, an exquisite bay scene peeking about between craggy rock walls with a beam of sunlight dropping down onto the way from a parting in the cloudy skyscape. Museums were never a safe option for Clara… why had she agreed to this? Well, because she wanted to appear normal, of course. One thing that would probably also make her appear normal would be to not steal the painting.

Consoling herself with the fact that she wouldn't be able to take it during visiting hours in broad daylight _anyway_, Clara forced herself to move past. Mary already had and was staring at a print just a few feet down.

As she sidled along to catch up, a startling loud crack reverberated through the air. Eyes wide, both women whirled around looking for the source.

"Was that a gun?" another patron asked loudly; the surrounding visitors looked terrified. But Clara and Mary exchanged knowing glances of terror. It wasn't a gun.

A second crack rang out, this one louder and deeper, and the floor beneath their feet shook. In less than a second, the ceiling began dropping in chunked around them and a wall at the far end of the room collapsed. A third crack and — everything was happening so quickly — Clara had just grabbed Mary's hand and begun to sprint away from the collapsing wall. But too quickly, they were enveloped by smoke and rubbled and Clara felt Mary collapse behind her, dragging her down too. People were screaming but, as suddenly as the explosions had begun, everything went silent. Clara's ears rung sharply as she strained her eyes to see through the dust as it settled.

The very first thing she noticed, was that the Cozens print was free from its glass encasement. Still hanging inside it's frame, it hung askew, about to drop, on the one wall still remaining completely upright. Clara checked behind her where Mary was passed out. All of the other visitors still in their exhibition room also seemed to have clocked out, either from head injuries or shock. Without even thinking, Clara stood, removed the print from the frame without touching anything but the artwork itself and slipped it into her bag.

Clara could hear the dull thud of several pairs of boots making their way through the museum in the exhibition room over. Either police and rescue or, more likely, the bombers. Really hard criminals, in all honesty, had always scared Clara. For all the false bravado she'd strutted around with in India and China to expand her heist network, she did her best to shy away from the types that used bombs and were unfazed by murder. Those were the people she preferred to confront in her day job, the people she put away.

Survival instinct kicking in, and the print already in hand / in purse, she made her way back over to the crumpled Mary. Clara herself was already covered in blood from minor abrasions, but she didn't have anything truly lethal looking. If she was going to play dead in front of the approaching bombers, she needed to look the part. Mary was bleeding heavily from several wounds, most severally from a deep gash in the side of her abdomen. Lifting the woman's shirt lightly, Clara almost instantaneously gasped and retracted her hands as if she'd been scalded. Mary was _pregnant_.

Immediately a wave of guilt washed over her for leaving the poor woman alone while she had used the bombing as a selfish opportunity to ease her compulsions. She forgot about everything but saving the mother in front of her. Clara took off her suit jacket to stop the flow of blood from the abdominal wound first. Frantically, she began looking around for something to tidy up the blood flow from a bad blow to Mary's temple as well.

"Who are you?" a deep British voice demanded.

Clara whirled around to face an immensely tall and heavy set man decked from head to toe in black, complete with a face mask, carrying an AK-47. Although the question had clearly been addressed to her, the man's eyes were locked on Mary Watson. He knew her, Clara could see the recognition in his eyes, even in his posture. He looked just about ready to take a knee and help.

"Please, please help me," Clara begged, "She's pregnant and she's losing blood."

Actually hearing Clara respond seemed to snap the man out of it. Behind him she could see several other men, dressed identically, making their way through the broken gallery rooms. Some of them were carrying a painting or two. The man she was talking to took a disaffected step back from her.

"Clearly, girl, we did not set off a bomb to help pregnant women. Who are you?" he repeated emphatically and raised his gun to aim at her head.

Clara feigned more fear than she actually felt as her survivalist instinct, luckily, made her hyper-aware and able to think more quickly. She raised her hands above her head fearfully and said the first name that popped into her mind: "Chelsea Handler!" Thank god for B-list American popular culture.

The man certainly showed no recognition of the semi-famous moniker. He lowered his weapon, only slightly.

"Get down with your friend," he demanded and she lowered herself onto the ground. Now only looking at his black boots she watched his feet pound away from her and after his comrades.

All of their footsteps grew more distant but Clara remained on the floor of the battered museum. She wasn't sure how long, time began to lose meaning. But right around the time she heard sirens, Mary was starting to come around.

"Mary!" she exclaimed finally sitting up and supporting the woman's head in her hands. Luckily the wound at her temple had begun to coagulate over and stopped bleeding. "How do you feel? Are you alright? Try not to move, your abdomen is bleeding, I stopped the flow."

"I'm f-fine, I think," Mary breathed out in a shaky, slow huff, "I can feel the pain in my side. I think it's well above the womb. The baby is, hopefully, fine. Are you okay?"

"Just bruised, I'm perfectly alright. Everything will be okay, the police are arriving, I hear the sirens," she soothed.

Just as she said it, rescue teams began to flood the room, police with the guns pointed outwards toward any remaining threat lead the way. Clara had two things to keep on her mind now. She'd made her choices, there was no undoing it now. She could only move forward. And as guilty as she was, Clara was _not_ going to get caught. This really wasn't her crime, anyway, in the scheme of things. It had simply been a moment of selfish opportunity.

"Help! Over here!" she called, and pulled out her Scotland Yard badge, "My name is Clara James, I'm Scotland Yard detective and my friend is badly injured!"

"This way!" one of the leading policemen called and directed a set of paramedics with a stretcher over to her. "You said you're with Scotland Yard?" he asked, as the paramedics got Mary onto the stretcher, listening attentively as she told them about her pregnancy.

"Yes, just started," she replied, taking the hand he offered to her to stand up.

"Do you need to go to the hospital?" he asked.

"I'm alright. Mary? Are you fine?" she asked.

"I've given them John's number, they'll call Sherlock too," Mary responded from the stretcher.

"I'll come in and check on you later, but they need my help right now," Clara explained, also crafting her cover and "heist" escape. If it could even be called a heist.

"Of course," Mary said.

"Is Lestrade here?" she asked the policeman.

"Yes, he's outside, come with me, it's a bit difficult to get out the entrance."

Indeed, the whole front of the building seemed caved in and Clara wondered if it was really safe to be walking towards the center of where the bomb had clearly gone off. Still, she allowed him lead her through a crack in the collapsed front walls. The glass windows beneath the Tate's huge tower were gone and shattered glass carpeted the floor before them. Once outside she turned around to inspect the building from outside. The top half of the tower was gone, it had cracked in half. Luckily, the top half had crumpled onto the back of the building instead of out and over onto the bridge.

"Detective James?" someone called from a short distance away. It was Lestrade.

She rushed off from the policeman's side and over to her boss who was standing with Sally and a team of search and rescue dogs.

"Clara, what are you doing here?" Sally asked with what sounded like genuine concern.

"Mary Watson invited me to join her after work… she's on her way to the hospital but I think she'll be fine," Clara responded.

"How bad is it in there?" Lestrade asked.

"There weren't many people in the museum today. But I was the only one that seemed unscathed enough to walk out. I'm not sure how structurally sound the wreckage is," she responded.

"Fire and national search and rescue are on the way," Lestrade said, "I'm sorry you were caught up in all of that but you'll be of great use to parcel it all out."

"One of the bombers spoke to me," she answered quickly but, just as Lestrade raised his eyebrows, she continued with a request, "But before I come back to give you a report, might I have half an hour to go home and shower?" Clara allowed her eyes to tear up for effect. "I'm covered in debris a-and… blood. My blood, Mary's blood."

"Yes, yes of course," Lestrade said, "Sally can drive you, the police cars are all needed right now, I'm afraid. She'll take you back to the office and you can give the details of the report there."

* * *

Once safely back in her faux-apartment, she was able to duck into the closet for just a moment to take the print out from her bag and stash it in the dry-cleaning bag of one of her blazers. She'd take it back to her tiny annex later. They'd likely want her to keep her purse and clothes on hand to test the dust and debris for traces of chemicals from the explosion. Clara got a clean trash bag to deposit everything in, slipped on a robe, and handed the bag to Sally wordlessly before hopping into the shower.

With wet hair tied into a tight bun and some clean sweat clothes on (Clara figured she was allowed to be a tad unprofessional when coming into the office both after-hours and post-explosion) Sally took her into their office and recorded everything as Clara gave a completely detailed report of everything that occurred — minus her own theft, of course.

"He was over six feet tall, 6' 4" I'd guess," she told Sally, "Big fellow, 250 pounds about, much of it muscle mass likely. They were all dressed the same. Black combat boots, thick black jeans, black bullet proof vests over black sweaters, and black ski masks. From what I could see behind him there were three others, shorter and less stocky I think, but my perspective was a bit skewed from being on the floor. And there may have been more that I didn't see. He asked me my name and it was my automatic response not to tell him my real name, I just sort of blurted out… Chelsea Handler."

"A fake name?" Sally asked.

"An American comedian," she replied, "But what was really strange… I just, I got the sense that he _knew_ Mary Watson."

"Why do you say that?" Sally asked.

"First of all, he wasn't asking any other victims their names. Granted, I was the only one still conscious but no one was checking the victims to ID them. And when he looked at her, there was just an instant recognition; he visibly startled, like he wanted to help her. He looked… like he momentarily thought they'd messed up the heist terribly," she attempted to articulate.

"Unfortunately, you're not providing much evidence on which to base that deduction. That's a lot of projection," Sally said.

"I know. So make of that information what you will. I'm just providing my general sense of everything that happened. No detail too small, right?" she asked.

Sally hummed approvingly before making a few last notes on the report. "Lestrade may want to talk to you himself again later and I have no doubt the freak will, especially if Lestrade reads the report. He'll hound you about the man 'recognizing' Mary," she warned.

* * *

Driven in part by genuine concern for the friendly Mary Watson but also to stay one step ahead of Sherlock, she drove to the hospital to check-in on Mary immediately after providing her report. It was past visiting hours, but all she had to do was flash her badge at the emergency room front desk and a nurse quickly led her back to the room.

She could make out the top of Sherlock's head from the glass windows surrounding the room as she approached. Both he and John had their attention squarely focused on Mary on the hospital bed, so Mary saw her first.

"Oh, Clara! You didn't have to come so soon; I'm perfectly alright. They're only keeping me one night to monitor the baby," she called out.

"All the same," Clara said, stepping through the door, "I was very worried. And you're a civilian… you've never had bomb training. I wanted to make sure you weren't in shock."

John and Mary exchanged noticeably shifty looks when Clara called her a civilian, but Sherlock turned around to look at her impassively.

"Sherlock, I've already given my report to Scotland Yard but I also wanted to give you some details personally…" she alluded, gesturing to the door.

"Details? What details?" John immediately perked up.

Clara looked uncomfortably towards her new friend. "Mary was unconscious in the immediate aftermath of the bomb," she said, "It's nothing that should concern her. She's already under duress."

Mary smiled warmly, "That couldn't be further from the truth. I'm _fine_. But, by all means, speak with Sherlock privately. If it's something we should know, he'll tell us," she said.

Clara noddded and walked out into the hallway, leaning against one of the walls with arms crossed. "Have you heard from Detective Lestrade yet?" she asked him.

"Just briefly," Sherlock answered, "I'm going in tonight to take a look at the bomb analysis and to survey the scene myself. Look at your testimony… all I know right now if that they've stolen a half dozen of the paintings from the visiting O'Keeffe collection, and one print by an artist named Alexander Cozens from the permanent collection."

Clara fought the desperate urge to swallow and dearly hoped that her pupils hadn't dilated. She'd been studiously controlling her breathing since the moment she arrived to keep anxiety from flaring up. Still, they'd noticed her print missing.

"You should go back to read my report, I gave it when it was all fresh in my head but… one thing I included tends to be the sort of evidence that detectives overlook as emotional projection," she began.

Sherlock cocked his head in abject curiosity. "Emotional projection?" he asked.

"I spoke to one of the bombers," she began to explain, "There were about four there but none of them stopped to even look at anyone. But the man who spoke to me… I just have the very distinct feeling that he came over to me because he recognized Mary. He asked me who I was and he almost seemed like he wanted to help her."

If Sherlock found this characteristic of anything, he betrayed no sign of his thoughts. His eyes were still drilling into her though, and she knew he was taking in everything she did as she spoke. "What did you say?" he asked her.

"I sort of panicked but I knew I didn't want to give my real name… I told him I was Chelsea Handler, this B-list American comedian," she said.

"Why do you think he knew Mary?" he asked.

"He was looking at her, not me, when he came over to us. He looked scared when he saw her, like they'd made a big mistake or something. I don't know how else to explain it, I could just _see_ recognition in his eyes. He was a big hulking fellow, British, you can read it all in my report," she said.

Sherlock nodded. "Well, hopefully this insight will prove useful," was all he said before striding back into Mary's room. Clara followed.

"Mary, I wish I could sit and visit longer, but I really ought to see if they need me back at the scene," she lied.

Mary waved her off warmly while John clasped his wife's hands, anxiety still written all over his features. Clara waved goodbye and made her way out, itching from the feel of Sherlock Holmes' eyes boring into her back as she retreated.

* * *

**Woof, you guys are a tough crowd! The Sherlock fandom is, apparently, not an easy one to break into. If you've read this, I'd very much appreciate a note on what you think or a follow if you think this is worth continuing! **

**Also balancing my time with a post-war Harry Potter fic and a couple of Avengers stories, the latter of which are mostly for good fun, not overly serious. Well, the Harry Potter one is pretty serious. Check out my profile if you're a part of either of those fandoms!**


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